


the scarlet thread

by sakura_aesthetic (orphan_account)



Category: Hybrid Child (Anime & Manga), Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Memory Loss, Mild Smut, Non-Linear Narrative, Red String of Fate, Soulmates, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sakura_aesthetic
Summary: A Chinese proverb: there exists a red string of Fate connecting those by their pinky fingers who are supposed to meet at some point in their lives, destined lovers stitched together by a single thread which may be tangled, stretched, but never broken; through circumstances and time, Fate will see them together in the end.





	the scarlet thread

**Author's Note:**

> Just a general warning before reading: this story has a lot of time skips—between the past and the present—and relies heavily on both fandoms in regard to plot. If you haven't read the manga or watched the anime, the non-linear narrative may be a bit hard to follow.

 

 

_a Chinese proverb:_

_there exists a red string of Fate_

_connecting those by their pinky fingers_

_who are supposed to meet_

_at some point in their lives,_

_destined lovers stitched together by a single thread_

_which may be tangled, stretched,_

_but never broken;_

_through circumstances and time,_

_Fate will see them together in the end._

* * *

i. the longest fermata

It hurts. It hurts more than Kuroda can bear. The emptiness of the room, save for a single dimly-lit candle, allows shadows to burn into the shoji partition, creeping along the tatami mats, black hands stretching, reaching for him. The illusion makes Kuroda paranoid, his concern revolving around the notion that they’re coming to take him away. That they’re reaching, grabbing, and tearing Tsukishima from beneath him, the man with so little time left to live. And it hurts. More than Kuroda can bear. The shadows are running along the floor, scampering across the walls, closing them in, confining them in such close quarters, keeping them here—prisoners. There is no escape from this. No escape from death.

Only, Kuroda isn’t held captive by a pact made with the enemy; instead, he’s being held against his will by the man sprawled underneath him, those emerald eyes seeing but not seeing the shadows, the prison, the deal made with an oni.  

Blind to what will come with the morning sun. And he’ll kneel, obediently, unblinking as they hand him a double-edged sword. You live to die, you die to live—that is seppuku.

And Kuroda, well, it’s too late to do anything now. It’s too late to save a dying man. Too late to save Tsukishima, the boy who presented him with cherry blossoms the day following a spring storm, petals uplifted and carried; time as they knew it then, would forever change. At least for Kuroda it did, accepting the flowers, something far more meaningful than a renowned olive branch. It had not been a peace offering or an armistice, oh no, it incited battle. Waging war had screamed in those green irises: I dare you to make the first move, Tsukishima had willed. He hadn’t backed down from the fight, encouraging Kuroda to just lean in, breathe, chew, and swallow. Take him for everything he had ever been to Kuroda, become his.

But the fight has left him now and, with pitiful remorse, Tsukishima hides his face and relinquishes a muffled cry. The sound alone leaves Kuroda unsettled, painfully reverberating against his fractured ribs. If physically possible, it would be capable of breaking what little of his body is still intact; it sure as hell twists, guts, and plunges uncomfortably deep within into chest. This is Tsukishima: the stubborn one, the assumedly ‘weak’ boy, the beautiful mess of auburn hair and brave eyes, and he’s falling apart because Kuroda had broken him with the evident truth— _death is on the horizon, how dare you leave me to pick up the pieces? I hate you for it. I hate you, I hate you._

But really, the truth is sometimes never enough, because as the conversation replays, a mantra marching through Kuroda’s memory, he realizes the words spoken had been hollow. Hate is a strong word, an empty word. But to fill that void, Kuroda can think of nothing and instead, with steady, bandaged hands, scoops the trembling man into his arms, hoping it will suffice.

“No, Kuroda… stop it,” Tsukishima whimpers. Kuroda ignores the weak attempt to push him away, too preoccupied with the taste of salt on his tongue, his mouth planting comforting kisses along Tsukishima’s jawline. It isn’t enough to ease his suffering, Kuroda realizes. To remedy that, he extends what little is left of his injured arm to cradle Tsukishima’s head, lips brushing against the man’s ear.

“That’s enough,” Kuroda murmurs, his lithe fingers caressing auburn hair, “both you and I should stop talking.”

Tsukishima releases a breathy sigh. Kuroda takes it as it appears: defeat, surrender. He doesn’t like either resolution but accepts them, accepts Tsukishima’s resignation nonetheless, his mummy, foreign hands cupping a cheek he has never dared to strike, let alone touch. Something warm blooms beneath his fingertips—a blush. Kuroda cherishes the color, pressing his chapped mouth to it, nursing it, devouring it. Sucking skin that spreads to lips—lush, sweet—and Kuroda devours them too, claiming what he’s so desperately longed for. Tsukishima moans quietly, a hushed sound, but it’s enough to leave Kuroda aching, for he is kissing a man on borrowed time. And all the while, Tsukishima is melting, heat rising, afire, burning images into Kuroda’s mind that will never fade. To soften the blow (of losing him), Kuroda’s bruised knuckles search and eventually find solace in the husk of Tsukishima’s tiny palms, holding him. Holding him as tightly as he can. Unable to let go.

He won’t let go. Not ever.

* * *

ii. sharpened blade of memory

“I love you.”

From the opposite side of the mattress, a groan.

“It’s too early for this, Takano-san.”

Disappointed, Takano Masamune can’t help but furrow his eyebrows. Propping himself up on one arm, Emerald’s editor-in-chief focuses on the mass taking refuge beneath the comforter, waiting for the man to make his appearance. He eventually gets his wish, hazelnut eyes meeting green, Onodera Ritsu’s brown hair askew with a dribble of saliva dried against his chin. It’s harder than Takano expects to refrain from wiping it away, but he resolves to do so anyway. Not because he needs Onodera’s permission. Oh no, Takano is the one who barged into 1202 the night before, forcing his tongue down the smaller man’s throat.

No, the reason why he refrains from touching Onodera right now is simply that he’s pissed. Angry as hell at the man lying beside him, denying the love he so obviously feels for the former. What’s more is the fact that, despite these frequent nightly endeavors, Onodera has the nerve to say ‘it’s too early for this’ as if saying _I love you_ has a schedule, an interval of time. As though time is endless and there will be infinite opportunities to say those words.  

One must think that by now, after months of being ‘swept away’ (as Onodera so-calls it), the usual _I love you_ in the morning should be nothing short of the norm. Except, for Onodera, it is.

So, of course Takano is unnerved by this. Who wouldn’t be?

Rather than arguing, however, Takano sighs heavily, maintaining his composure. He has never been good with words. Especially when it comes to Onodera Ritsu. And with his level-head hanging in the balance, he isn’t willing to take any chances by going off on a high note, so he settles with, “but I love you. There will never be a time not to say it. Don’t you feel the same way?”

“T-Takano-san…” the smaller man stammers, cheeks flushing, “don’t be ridiculous.”

Unfurling himself from the sheets, Onodera stumbles out of bed, embarrassed by his own stark nakedness. Takano can’t help but smirk, appreciating the evidence of their love-making session from the night before. Raw hickies littering his neck; crescent moons biting into flesh; the slight tremor in Onodera’s pale, thin legs—it pleases Takano immensely to see his lover covered in _his_ marks, in _his_ fingerprints. Raking his eyes over the smaller man’s frame, Takano relishes in the love bites following the curvature of Onodera’s spine, recalling how Onodera had shivered under his lips. He remembers the goosebumps rising along the planes of his back, the subtle arch into Takano’s hands, the not-so-muffled moan that slipped between Onodera’s bruised lips.

Now, however, watching him clumsily dress—Onodera’s body practically boneless and the memories resurfacing without end—leaves Takano frowning. It is damn near impossible to stay angry at Onodera when he looks like _this_.

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Takano retorts from the mattress, eyes glued to Onodera’s thighs; he wouldn’t mind another round first thing in the morning if it meant being situated between those two embodiments of perfection. “You’re just stubborn and won’t admit how you feel about me. I know you’re in love with me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be so conceited, Takano-san,” Onodera says while buttoning his shirt, pivoting to face Takano when done. “Hurry and get dressed. We have work.”

But Takano can’t find the words. Can’t speak. For his hazelnut eyes betray him and focus on Onodera’s body at the one place he refused to touch, refused to see the night before. Just above his belly button. Below his ribcage, his breastbone. A scar. A long and deep and painful _trench_ that obstructs the perfectly smooth skin surrounding it. Onodera doesn’t remember how the severed skin came to exist. Probably a bike accident, he had once told Takano. But the jaded man knew better than that.

It is a scar that Takano utterly despises; yet, seeing it only creates a strange sense of yearning. Longing to touch, to hold the man standing no more than five feet away from him. But again, he refrains from moving, from flinching.

Because if he dares to move a muscle, he’ll be cut far deeper than any memory ever could.

* * *

iii. exchange (of past, of present, of future)

“What’s wrong? You already scared?” Kuroda teases while crossing his arms over his chest.

The road in which the two men stand is vacant save for the dirt, the stream, the trees. They are alone. This is their farewell. But Kuroda knows better than to reveal his weakness: having to say goodbye for what may be the last time. Because if his knees dare to buckle right now, before his fellow companion’s eyes, then the war will become a reality and all prevailing strength will disappear, defeat inevitable, victory impossible. No, he has to be strong. For Tsukishima.

So when Tsukishima growls, the smaller man throwing all of his weight—what little of it there is—behind a punch, Kuroda expects nothing less and catches his fist. It trembles against his open palm, shaking violently. Kuroda can feel Tsukishima’s uneasiness but doesn’t mention it. Acknowledging the terror in Tsukishima’s eyes; feeling the galloping pulse against his hand; admitting his own fears of going into battle, of dying, of losing the man standing in front of him—Kuroda understands the implications of revealing the truth.

Whatever truth that may be, Kuroda broods, his thoughts floundering as the glare of the sun blinds him. Up until now, he’s never pondered his unconscious, never spared the time to deliberate upon his dreams, his desires running rampant through his mind. But he’s out of time. For he knows that it’s too late to get attached now. Too late to fully surmise what his relationship is between himself and Tsukishima.

And if he were to conclude anything beyond mere friendship, right now before parting ways, his confession may be enough to break the both of them. Might as well be dead already.

Kuroda strays then, from the words practically crawling up his throat, catching them with a thick swallow. No, these things are better unsaid, better unheard, better unthought (if possible). It stings, Kuroda admits inwardly, allowing himself to succumb to the painful truth: Tsukishima will never know.

But it’s better this way. Safer. Far less terrifying. They could die then, if need be, without worrying about the other. Peaceful slumber. Nothing to keep them tied to the earth. Easier.

The notion leaves a bittersweet taste in Kuroda’s mouth. Perhaps that’s why his lips curl at the corners, pull back, and sneer.

And as they move, he taunts, “What now, aren’t you gonna tell me to ‘die’ or ‘commit seppuku’ as usual?”

Tsukishima grunts at the sharpness of his words but doesn’t falter. “Don’t flatter yourself. If you die now, others will be burdened with your tasks.” Kuroda is taken aback by the fierce expression crossing the other man’s face.

_So unlike you, Tsukishima._

Kuroda pulls away slowly, watching their hands collapse in on one another before separating, bridges burning, earth splitting, world crashing down.

_Don’t make this harder than it needs to be._

“I guess you’re right,” Kuroda wills himself to reply, then pivots on his heel. He can’t bring himself to look into those glassy, green eyes again. Otherwise, he’d be unable to let go next time. “See you then.”

Kuroda puts one foot in front of the other, putting distance between them. He waits and waits and waits to hear the one and only thing he would need to keep from moving forward; practically begging to hear it, his steps are slow and his ears are straining for sound. He wants to hear Tsukishima _say_ it. Aloud. It would be enough to stop him. Enough to damn the war and the men he’s supposed to lead. Enough to run, into unexpecting arms, into unprepared lips, into unconditional love that Kuroda prays exists within the man just fifteen feet from him.

“Kuroda!” The voice echoes, reverberating so powerfully within Kuroda’s chest; he feels as though he’s on the brink of falling. Into what, he doesn’t know, but it’s enough to sway him from his path.

“Well… be careful… and come back alive.”

What happens soon after is a blur. One second, Kuroda can’t breathe. The next, he’s breathing in. Inhaling the sweet scent of cherry blossoms, of parchment, of lemongrass, mouth gaping and poised, ready to bite, to kiss, to _taste_ . It overwhelms him, enough to the point in which he barely feels the brush of Tsukishima’s fingers against his uniform. And when he does, Kuroda’s firm hands grapple for Tsukishima’s, threading them together. He’s so close. So _close_ now. It isn’t until he hears the surprised _oh_ sound leaving Tsukishima’s mouth, perceives the brutal force of Tsukishima’s arm into his torso, shoving, creating space where there is meant to be none, that Kuroda is yanked back into reality. The reality of Tsukishima panting, eyes wide, lips parted as though silently asking _why now? Why are you telling me now?_

“What…?”

The very same thing that Kuroda had thought minutes, if not seconds ago—

—what ultimately led to his final decision on the matter.

It’s better to leave things the way they are: no strings attached. Friends, nothing more and nothing less.

“Nothing.”

Staring at Tsukishima’s confused, almost pleading eyes, however, somehow leaves Kuroda aching. Guilt is eroding him. It’s not nothing. It has never been nothing. Always everything.

Knowing it won’t be enough to explain, to heal the wounds that he himself inflicted upon Tsukishima, Kuroda reaches behind his head and gingerly unties his hachimaki. He then offers the white cloth to the smaller man.

“Trade me.”

The expression on Tsukishima’s face is priceless. “Huh?”

On any other occasion, Kuroda would have to stifle a chuckle. But holding his own hachimaki, the headband waving in the breeze, Tsukishima already so confused and betrayed and angry and alone is a burden too heavy to bear, weighing down Kuroda’s sought-after lighthearted laugh.

“Because you’re a coward, I’m giving it to you as a protection charm. Whenever you’re on the verge of breaking down, or when you need someone to cheer you up,” Kuroda again offers his headband, eyes stern and unwavering, “take out the piece of paper sewn in the tip, and read it.”

Tsukishima doesn’t say anything in return but meticulously begins untying his own hachimaki. It’s a sight that reminds Kuroda of a time long ago. Children they had been when they made that young and naive oath: a pinky promise. Kuroda had sworn to protect Tsukishima no matter what, how ironic given the position they’re in now. But he’s not about to break his word before going into a war they cannot hope to win. He’ll continue to hold on, to keep his promise until the end. Protecting, guarding, and fighting until his very last breath.

Only when Tsukishima’s hachimaki is in his grasp does Kuroda exhale, grateful to have something, _anything_ once belonging to the smaller man. He unceremoniously knots the headband as though it’s not a big deal, but deep down, it is warm, it is pristine white, it is the only gift Tsukishima has ever given him. Not a headband, but a lifeline, another promise whispering _come back to me_.

 

x

 

It has come back to him—the scent of worn, leather-bound books, crisp parchment, pencil lead, and spring.

April. The cherry blossoms will soon bloom in earnest. Streets will be covered in soft, baby pink petals. Window panes will be cracked at dawn just for a whiff of the flowers’ sweet perfume. Novelty will be on the horizon; something is bound to change.

Saga understands this. Welcomes it. Embraces it: within a short span of time, he’ll be greeted with a newness unlike anything else ever encountered.

About time, he simpers while glancing around the library. The room is forsaken aside from the timid, little student spying from the nearest bookshelf, Saga’s stalker. Saga’s smirk doesn’t falter, only grows; _my_ stalker, he thinks. It’s been years since he’d first laid eyes on that familiar head of auburn hair and, since that day, wherein the first year had accidentally stumbled into Saga, nothing has ever been quite the same in the library.

At first it had been cautious glances cast from across the room. Later it became habitual for Saga to browse along an aisle and find the smaller boy standing awkwardly around the corner, hiding and averting his gaze. At some point, the peculiar boy had fully gained Saga’s attention when fingers danced across the name _Oda Ritsu_ on the library checkout card of, not one, but several dozens of books that Saga had read. Thanks to his knack for remembering unnecessary details, the name _Oda Ritsu_ forever etched itself into Saga’s long-term memory.

Just as Saga is about to delve deeper into his thoughts, the light touch of a hand brings him back to the library, the open book he’s been reading, the pencil lead teetering on the edge of his notebook. Before Saga can pull away, however, he is abruptly greeted by the latest release of _Koharu Short Stories_.

“Saga-senpai, I brought you this. It was just released today and I thought you might want to borrow it.”

But Saga isn’t paying attention to the flapping pages of the literary magazine. He isn’t even aware of the homemade bento being offered as well. All he can focus on is the hands that are extended to him; the fingers that had meticulously written the only name he will ever remember; the warm palms that had touched his shoulder just moments ago—it takes every bit of self-control to keep from grasping them tightly, bringing the boy’s knuckles to his lips.

He’s never kissed a boy before, let alone spared a glance at one in passing. Until this boy. Until Oda Ritsu. And when Saga had noticed him from afar—this little rich kid playing some twisted game of hide-and-seek—he’d wanted to break him. Break him where it hurt most, fracturing the twenty-four ribs protecting his heart and then some. Staking his claim on the fragile heart deprived of brutality, of neglect, of loneliness. Break him as the people meant to love Saga had.

It is so unfair, this pampered kid bearing magazines and bentos and soft hands. Unfair for Saga—who has nothing—to be the object of obsession for a boy with everything.

_I was meant to hate him, to break him._

As the thought crosses Saga’s mind, however, he realizes the weight of his preconceptions and shoves the thought away. Because how is it possible to break him when he smiles in such a way. Genuine, sincere, warm. Beautiful and good.

_Who knew I would fall for this kid?_

Wordlessly, Saga takes the magazine by the binding, feeling its thickness between his thumb and forefinger. Flawless composition, not a single wrinkle or crack or split. The pages are without creases, and the price sticker has not been removed.  

_He probably hasn’t even read it yet. He wanted to let me read it first._

That’s Oda Ritsu for you.

So, in exchange for the magazine—and for everything in between—Saga rises from his chair and places a hand on the wary boy’s shoulders. The movement stirs up an image of a spring storm, a broken branch, a boy with an unwavering expression. Fierce. Dutiful. Regret. Farewell. _Come with me, please return safely, I hate you_ , _don’t speak anymore_.

Saga’s eyes widen considerably in surprise. These are the emotions that come and go with every spring season. These are the emotions that Saga feels but forces down; out-of-sight, out-of-mind. He doesn’t understand these traded words despite being an avid reader. He doesn’t recognize the boy standing before him, auburn hair and emerald eyes. Unwavering expression. There is ancient history here, something buried deep beneath the surface; yet, Saga doesn’t find reason to dig, to ask why. After all, he’s never been good with words.

“Thank you,” Saga settles upon, then says, “do you want to come over to my place and read it with me?”

The larger-than-life smile that appears is an answer all on its own; Saga can’t deny the millisecond in which his heart stops beating.

_Beautiful. Who knew…_

 

x

 

“Beautiful,” Takano whispers, mouth caressing burning ear.

“T-Takano-san… no more.”

The plea is small, almost nonexistent between the hushed moans, muffled groans, and sizeable gasps of air coming from the man beneath Takano. He acknowledges the sound but chooses not to listen. Instead, his teeth catch on Onodera’s ear and tug. Hard. Yanking. Forcing it open. _Hear me._

“Onodera, please.”

Grunting, the larger man transfers all of his weight onto his forearms, balancing carefully above the writhing man. Trapping him, Takano leaves searing love bites from his ear to his mouth. An exchange of forced kisses, lips remaining stupidly locked shut, but Takano breaks down the gate anyway. _Let me in, let me in._

“Please,” he says, spreading Onodera’s thighs apart with his knee. There is resistance on the receiving end, but the message is carried and the smaller man eventually gives in, parting his legs, hands finding purchase in Takano’s hair.

“Please,” Takano murmurs, his hands resting on Onodera’s hips, thumbs brushing the bone. Onodera whines at the close proximity to his navel, shifting for better access. It’s body over mind now for Onodera; Takano realizes this and doesn’t hesitate to give Onodera what he wants. Onodera wants him. And Takano wants Onodera Ritsu. Every part of him. But for Takano, it’s mind over body, and what he needs is not skin touching skin, lips swallowing lips. What he needs is Onodera to stop struggling so damn much with Takano’s belt buckle, to stop fumbling with his zipper. What he needs is Onodera to just stop and see that this is more than the usual fuck-and-go; he needs Onodera to entrust his heart into Takano’s careful hands. He’ll be gentle with it. He’ll feel its pulse and know its alive and beating and thumping.

“Please,” Takano breathes, mouth trailing kisses from Onodera’s galloping chest to his pinky finger, tracing the ulnar artery threading, thudding quietly, beneath his pale skin. The blood vessel is breathing, fast and uneven and deafening. Takano briefly wonders if it will hemorrhage, if Onodera will break at the pressure of knowing the truth. Of knowing where, when, and how he earned that scar maiming his own body.

Takano can’t help but growl at the memory burned deep into his mind. To ease his suffering, hands come to rest at the depression in Onodera’s abdomen, brushing over the visible, ugly mark. The smaller man stiffens at the contact but doesn’t pay much attention, too focused on fisting into the sheets, arching his back into the heat hovering over him. He’s already gone, barely holding onto Takano as it is. To know the truth would break him, break _them_.

“Please,” Takano almost begs now, gaze trained on Onodera’s panting form, palms pressing softly against the battered skin, _in exchange for this, just remember—_

_—remember that you love me too._

* * *

iv. sehnsucht

“Wait a minute!” Kuroda yells, shoving a subordinate away. _Just get to him, just go to him._ “Why does Tsukishima have to be the one to commit suicide?”

“Kuroda, calm down! You’ll reopen your wounds!”

But Kuroda can’t calm down, can’t keep his anger at bay. He doesn’t give two fucks about his skin, blood, or bandages. His knees could give out beneath him, ribs cracking upon contact with the ground, heartstrings unspooled and uncoiled and unattached, and he wouldn’t care. All he can think about is—

“This is a joke! Why must it be Tsukishima?”

Kuroda’s ironclad chest heaves, breaking. Armor undone, uncuffed now, Kuroda feels the immeasurable weight of a katana embedded in his vertebrae. He feels the invisible sword wrench and pry at his bones, breaking. Pins and needles attack his feet, his spine numb; he can’t feel anything when emerald eyes are projected across the threshold of his mind. _He_ is breaking. Apart, and at the seams. And he thought a love confession just days ago would do him in, would break him. No. No, this is far worse.

“It can’t be helped!” Someone grabs his arms only to be pushed aside.

_I can’t allow this to happen._

“Kuroda, stop moving around!” Another pair of hands attempts to restrain him but fail.

_I won’t allow Tsukishima to die._

_I won’t lose him—_

_—Why must he die?_

“Our clan has been defeated!”

Kuroda stops moving. _Everything_ stops moving—the room; the burning candle in the corner; the shadows grappling on the walls.

“To preserve the life of our Lord, someone must take responsibility.”

Kuroda’s legs cannot bear him any longer and snap, like twigs. He is down for the count, kneeling with battle-worn feet planted on the ground. Vertigo hits Kuroda, but he dodges the blow and swallows the nausea; he can’t afford the luxury of a blackout now, not when Tsukishima’s life is on the line.

“Every other chief and second-in-command has died. Who else do we have, besides him?”

_I can’t accept this…_

“Then I’ll—”

“Your death is worthless to them.”

_I refuse to accept anything but Tsukishima’s life…_

_His life returned to him._

“It pains me too,” Kuroda’s advisor says, fists clenched, “Tsukishima was extremely brave. He stepped up himself and volunteered to give his own life.”

So the idiot learned what it means to serve his duty, Kuroda thinks. In all of their years, for the auburn-haired man to make such a sacrifice, to forgo his usual selfishness, he decided that now was the time to be honorable? It sickens him. It absolutely sickens Kuroda. Tsukishima isn’t being brave; he’s a fucking coward. Was he so dangerously cornered that there was no escape? Why did he surrender so easily?

“So, when?”

A heavy sigh, and then, “Tomorrow.”

_Tsukishima…_

Tomorrow is equivalent to six hours or less.

_Tsukishima…_

Tomorrow is morning’s beckoning call.

_Tsukishima…_

Tomorrow is not enough. No amount of time will ever be enough. Not for Tsukishima, and certainly not for Kuroda.

A primal roar rips through Kuroda’s gagged and mangled throat, but the sound that echoes into the indigo abyss of sky is just as powerful, just as remorseful as a deafening war cry. He realizes that he’s outside, walking blindly through battle-ridden terrain. He is screaming. ‘Tsukishima’ is the only locution capable of forming at the tip of his tongue, but within those four syllables, Edo Japan hears it, hears him plead his dying wish of ‘please, don’t leave me.’

 

x

 

“I heard that you’re going to take complete responsibility?”

Kuroda wants to punch him. He wants to sock that serene smile off Tsukishima’s face.

"Oh, yeah,” the smaller man nods, “please take care of everything afterward.”

Rage ensues. Kuroda lets the feeling simmer, lets it boil. It’s his unadulterated anger that makes his mouth open, a feral "take care of?" filling the room. Because, despite what Tsukishima may think, Kuroda is not a good enough person to fix this mess. He isn’t strong enough.

"If things had gone well, I wanted the three of us to go flower-viewing again. But things don't always work out,” Tsukishima chuckles half-heartedly. "Seems like this world doesn't move according to our wishes. I'm really worried about Seya, so please stay by his side for me too. I'll be counting on you.”

Kuroda forces his rigid jaw to remain clamped shut. He isn’t strong enough to take care of Seya.

“In your case, I'm sure you'll stay alive tenaciously and persistently, so I'm not worried at all.”

Kuroda isn’t strong enough to live if Tsukishima were to die.

He doesn’t want to be the scapegoat here; if Tsukishima dies, then he is to blame. He doesn’t want to be the man who attempted rescue; he wants to be the savior.

But Tsukishima is taking that choice away from him. Deep down, Kuroda knows his mission had been in vain, as if Tsukishima would ever run away from something like this. He has a duty to honor as a minister, a responsibility. Yet, Kuroda can’t help but grit his teeth, can’t help but glare at the man only hours away from his death.

_It isn’t fair._

The man standing before him is smiling. He should be complaining, or panicking, or crying like his usual self. He shouldn’t be so damn brave. Since becoming minister, Tsukishima has changed, Kuroda realizes. Since becoming minister, his life is no longer his to live.

_Why must it be you?_

“Why are you making such a scary expression? You already look like a bad person."

_Because it should never have been you._

_Because I can’t save you._

Kuroda can’t take it anymore.

_Because I—_

"You know, aren't you always snatching the best parts at the end?”

Tsukishima staggers at the tone of Kuroda’s voice.

“One day in history, it'll be written down as ‘the Lord's life was saved by Tsukishima's suicide’ or something like that. You've turned things around really well."

The auburn-haired man’s astonishment turns to brazen indignation. "Kuroda, that's rude!"

"But isn't that so?"

"What is?" Tsukishima snaps, eyes flashing.

They gleam with warning; _do not trespass upon this precarious ground_. Kuroda is testing his limits, treading through these dangerous waters. To ridicule someone’s day-in-the-life decision is one thing, but to mock someone’s suicide, to say that it’s easier than dealing with the aftermath is another. But Kuroda is furious with Tsukishima, so furious that he’s desperate. Desperate for an argument, desperate for words. It is his desperation that slackens the muzzle guarding his mouth, and he barks.

"Those who have to go on living have it much tougher than those who die!"

"What did you say?"

"Forcing us to take care of the mess you leave behind… put yourself in our shoes for once!"

_No._

"Kuroda! There are things you should and shouldn’t say!"

_This is not what I want to say. This is not what I came to say to you!_

"I’m saying what no one else has the guts to say!"

_The one single thing I wanted to say to you is—_

"If that’s all you’ve got to say, then leave! When did I ever—"

It’s too late. You can take back words, but never actions. So when Kuroda yanks Tsukishima’s yukata, he expends what little strength that remains toward a kiss. Without tenderness, without permission. Just hard and forceful and dominating.

_Just shut up! Listen to me!_

"You don't understand, do you?” Kuroda then says, breaking the kiss while pinning Tsukishima to the floor. “When you die, you die. Goodbye. The end. You return to the earth… that’s it. Those who are left behind are the ones saddled with the burden of living.

“Even after you’re gone, those terrible things called ‘memories’ linger behind to haunt us. Honestly, it’s just a pain in the ass. And yet, you talk about it with a grin on your face.

“If you're going to die, then take my memories away with you!"

Pain is relative, Kuroda realizes all too soon, when Tsukishima’s green eyes sink, tears spilling over.

"If I’ve only ever been a burden, why are you telling me now?” Tsukishima yells, his voice so well-rehearsed it’s apparent these words are familiar to him. “You've been teasing me for as long as I can remember. You always listened to Seya, but never me.” Tsukishima is crying hysterically now. “You know what I think of you? Wanna know? I—"

“That you hate me, right?” Kuroda says, anger piercing the thick veil of woe surrounding them.

"Don't say it before me!" Tsukishima turns to muffle his sobs, the back of his hand a shield to whatever Kuroda intends to say next, "You're always like this… treating me like I’m nothing."

Nothing. More like everything.

Tsukishima has always been everything to Kuroda.

The man knows this, but his raging temper bests him in this quasi-war, of fighting to knock some sense into the auburn-haired man, of surrendering to his calamity. Even with the layers of bittersweet tragedy collapsing in on them, Kuroda doesn’t like to lose, especially when it comes to arguments. And, for a moment too long, he forgets who exactly he’s speaking to.

"Well, I hate you too!"

Kuroda doesn’t acknowledge the depravity of his words until a knife equal to his stabs him, the blunt force of Tsukishima’s tearful “I hate you” pulling him back into reality, back into the fading candlelight.

Within seconds of harrowing silence—save for Tsukishima’s pitiful cries—Kuroda finds reason. Tsukishima doesn’t want to die, but to preserve his honor, he’s accepted it. Accepted death. And by doing so, he is hurting. Leaving everything behind—Seya, Kuroda—is the hardest thing he will ever have to do.

"Tsukishima."

Along with the name he’s come to know, forever recorded in his memory, Kuroda brushes over Tsukishima’s bangs. He leans in close enough to hear the thudding pulse of the anxious heart beneath him, nose bumping into skin, lips pressing against earlobe.

_Hear me._

But the words don’t come. Instead, a hand comes to rest at Kuroda’s waist and the whimpers cease to exist. Instead, the room is filled with moans and breathy pants and torturous pleas for release.

_Don’t let go, don’t let go._

Neither asks for reassurance though. Neither asks for sturdy ground. Neither asks for an answer for there is none. And Kuroda forces himself to be content with this.

Because whatever may possibly leave his mouth, a superficial structure, cannot compare to what ruminates deep to his body. The words he needs to say exist, but only at a visceral plane. There are some words, Kuroda concludes, that are capable of describing such complex emotions, vocabulary that resides somewhere within thousands upon thousands of his research journals. He doesn’t doubt their existence. Just maybe in another life, he’ll have the opportunity to find them and give them: the words to say.

 

x

 

That tiny mouth goes to show a grand opening. A brilliant o-shape; a click of the tongue; a windpipe that whistles—sound is the last thing Kuroda expected of this doll.

“W-wind… b-blow-wing… ”

_Could it be—_

_he’s learned how to speak?_

“M-morning…”

_That’s right, slowly._

“This morn-ning… b-bro-ken off… good for re-replant-ing… you… like… flowers.”

Kuroda’s eyes widen in disbelief.

_It couldn’t be…_

“That’s… why…”

_You…_

“Here.” And with it, an offering of cherry blossoms, pink and soft and beautiful.

This doll, this creation of his own hand, it smiles in earnest and gazes at him.

_What is it that I have given you?_

A mere three feet in height; yet, Kuroda meets him at eye level, welcomed unabashedly by green, _the_ green he had seen sinking, pulled ashore, and resuscitated the eve of their disappearance. Green. Swollen with tears then, with adoration and forgiveness and strength now. He sees Tsukishima in him, in a doll of his own craftsmanship.

It is now that Kuroda stumbles upon a truth carved from the child’s limbs, his scapula, his chest: he had given Tsukishima more than words—

—he had given him his heart, implanting it somewhere within the inches of bona fide muscle, tissue, skin.

_I love him…_

_Nothing more, and nothing less._

_And from the bottom of my heart,_

_I’m still desperately in love with him._

 

x

 

With the last button of Oda Ritsu’s shirt undone, the fabric peels away. Fair skin runs for miles underneath, but just above his belly button; below his ribcage; his breastbone—a scar, a faded but elongated depression in the abdomen. Seeing it jars Saga from his sleep-like daze. Through his half-lidded eyes, the room comes into focus; Oda comes into focus. And, for the first time since meeting this boy, Saga doesn’t fight it: this feeling of nostalgia.

Saga allows the feeling to overcome him. Somewhere in the remote corridors of his mind, a spring storm is brewing. Down the narrow hallway, a broken branch. Between the walls and floor, an image of a man. Akin to Oda Ritsu; the man’s only irregularity in appearance is his hair, for it is longer, and his eyes, for they are forlorn.

Conjured from Saga’s den of repressed memories, the scene shifts and Saga finds himself in a traditional-styled room, lying beside this stranger, watching him as though the world revolves around him (perhaps it does). His expression is mournful, torn with affliction even in his sleep. Saga sees—feels—himself trace the man’s lips (so soft) with his thumb. Palm pressed to cheek, body spooned and legs creating forks in their tangled embrace, Saga is living this moment again and hell, for some reason, he doesn’t want to. Perhaps it’s instinct. Perhaps it’s fear. Probably both. But somehow, he fights the urge to pull away. He needs to see this, to _remember_ whatever this is. To relive it, whatever pain or heartbreak or fury comes about.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is the overwhelming weight of longing. Especially as he gazes at the sleeping man, hand brushing away his bangs, cradling his temple. Just what is this man to Saga? What is this gut-wrenching melancholy? What is this unparalleled sense of loss? It’s not like the man is dying, bleeding out at Saga’s feet, so why?

But then, with a simple flutter of the man’s eyelashes, Saga understands. He remembers; every excruciating detail is dredged from his stomach, churning painfully. This man—not so different from Oda Ritsu yet a polar opposite all at once—will die today.

And it will be a fate worse than murder: by his own hand. The morning of the man’s suicide and Saga’s holed up here, naked, memorizing the planes of the man’s face. And now, Saga knows that those green eyes will never be seen again.

“Tsukishima.” A voice. It rumbles, shakes Saga to the core. The vocal cords are his, his voice box the organ that sings. And it’s projected to the man sleeping just inches away from him. “I’m sorry.” Wetness on his own face. His bandaged hand wipes it away, but the saltiness stings any open wounds. Saga knows to ignore it. He does. He focuses on this man— _Tsukishima_ his mind supplies—his frail body, his tired eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. I can’t save you.”

He wants to hold Tsukishima, Saga realizes. But it sounds wrong, to tie this desire to a man Saga cannot see. No, _Saga_ wants to hold him.

“I want to hold you.”

The words come easily. He doesn’t even register the fact that he’s said them until shaky hands clutch his back, a breathy “yes” surrendered by the boy in his arms. Saga is back in his tsundoku bedroom, books piled high, dusk bathing the walls in warm light, Oda held flush to him, relief settling in his chest.

Finally.

Saga exhales.

_Tsukishima. Ritsu. Whatever your name may be, you are safe. You are here._

_You are mine._

 

x

 

“Saga-senpai, do you love me?”

Saga Masamune knows he should say something, but the words don’t come. His muddled thoughts, his tenacious heart beating out of his chest—despite the hundreds of books inches from his fingertips, the words ensnared between the binding and the cover abandon him. Even from the deep recesses of his memory, every story, every phrase, every last letter that’s been jotted down, has forsaken him.

“Do you love me?”

 

x

 

_I’ll continue to recreate him… probably for the rest of my life…_

_Despite knowing it’s impossible to bring him back…_

_Just to fill this void of loneliness…_

_I love him._

 

x

 

“Senpai, do you love me?”

By now, Oda’s voice is trembling, cracking in his usual prepubescent manner. The confidence that Saga unearthed the night before—beneath the layers of clothing, of faded scars—is receding, and fast. Yet, it takes all of Saga’s strength to muster a simple “what?” in return. Hearing the need for an absolute answer is surprising, Saga’s mind unable to process what’s been asked of him.

“We’re dating now, right?”

Saga is grappling for any strand of focus, pinning down whatever Oda is trying to say, but he can’t. It’s impossible to when, sitting before him, Saga can only see Tsukishima, all wide-eyed, fragile; beautiful. The man he so loved in centuries past, without yukata bearing down on him, without sword at bay—sitting _right there_ in front of him.

“I mean, just how do you feel about me?” Oda whispers.

It is evident to anyone that Oda’s on the verge of breaking, his voice, his heart.

Saga acknowledges the words needed to be spoken. They are dancing on the tip of his tongue. He _knows_ them; they’ve been tied to him since losing Tsukishima, since manufacturing the prototype of hybrid child, since meeting Oda Ritsu in the library. Fate has bound, tangled, and woven them between time and history. The gasket of infant warfare threatened to separate, to cut a divide so impossible to return from; yet, here they sit, not a trench, not a katana keeping them apart, but a mattress, an untucked shirt, and three seemingly easy but important words.

For some unfathomable reason, however, Japanese has become a foreign language, perhaps even just a dialect off, one Saga can’t seem to remember. The translation is lost to him. They don’t come: the words he so desperately needs.

Instead, he laughs. Because war consumed their adulthood. Because tragedy stole their future. Because three years were spent stalking, spent watching from afar. Because so. much. time has been wasted. Because after all they’d been through, all the rifts, the battlefronts, the farewells, the sacrifices they’ve both made, why would Oda entertain such a simple-minded question such as “how do you feel about me?”

It’s obvious, isn’t it?

So, why then, Saga wonders, is Oda sniffling, all chapfallen? Why is he wobbling to his feet? Why is he gathering his things, wiping his cheeks, and walking out the door?

_Why is he leaving?_

_Unless_ —

Saga swallows thickly at the thought—

_he doesn’t remember._

Unless, Oda knows Saga only by Saga... and not Kuroda.

“Fuck!” Saga shouts, scrambling to his feet and running downstairs in frantic pursuit of Oda, _you had him you had him you had him_ chiding like a broken record. But _fuck fuck fuck he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone_ when Saga runs into the street, Oda Ritsu disappearing for the umpteenth time, _another ghost another ghost another ghost_ . Now, of all times, the words he’s been searching for decide to haunt him; _I love him I love him I love him_.

 

x

 

And they continue to haunt him for the next ten years.

Only to cease when a man—green eyes and all—wanders aimlessly into his office, the rookie manga editor bowing and introducing himself by the name of Onodera Ritsu.

* * *

v. forget-me-(k)nots

Onodera cannot justify why he does it, but when Takano knocks on the door at two a.m., speech slurred and clothes reeking of alcohol, he allows the drunkard to enter his home.

It doesn’t take long for Takano to pin him against a wall and pry his lips open with practiced dexterity, tongue begging for safe haven. Onodera attempts to push him away, but resolutely gives up within seconds because, why does he bother fighting it?

It’s practically second-nature to have Takano under the same roof, in the same bed, buried inside his body. They are tied together in more ways than one, both literally and metaphorically, as though something constantly thrusts them together, yanking them from different directions and forcing them to make small talk. Onodera doesn’t believe in God, or deities, or a higher power—he’s a man of science for goodness sake!—but sometimes (most of the time), whenever Takano corners him, it seems as though his resolve crumbles faster, surrendering to the touch of a man he hates, but somehow can’t deny. And there is no way in hell that Onodera is willingly condoning this behavior; oh no, he is not to blame here.

Because how is it that a man so drunk, so lost to the qualms of lower inhibition and pent-up aggression, be so _gentle_? Nothing about Onodera is fragile; his body, his mind, is entirely composed of sharp edges and fractured angles. The past ten years have molded him in such respect; it prevents people from drawing near and, if they miraculously come too close for comfort, his honed defenses and razor-edged words are capable of protecting him. Yet, Takano has found a way to scale the walls, kissing him without restraint, hand coming to cradle Onodera’s jaw. And it takes all of Onodera’s willpower to keep from relaxing into his touch. He isn’t pushing the man away, yes, but no, he refuses to go soft, to fall apart and give in the way his body so obviously wants him to.

“Onodera, take me to bed,” Takano mumbles, hands wandering lower.

The rookie (with respect to both editing manga, and making out with his boss/ex-lover) almost shuns Takano’s request, sickened by the taste of beer, of sweat suffocating him. Onodera doesn’t want to be stuck in this position, hooking up with a man (or anyone else for the matter) who feels that getting drunk is an excuse to get laid, nor does he want to take his ex-lover to bed, knowing full well that every. damn. time they do this fuck-and-run, Onodera is swept away by the past, remembering every bitter memory, all the pain, the heartbreak.

It hurts. It hurts more than Onodera Ritsu can bear. For the emptiness of the bedroom, save for the faint stream of moonlight seeping in through the window, allows the claws of his past to scrape along the hardwood, hands stretching, reaching for him. The shadows leave Onodera’s stomach churning, the entirety of his mind focused on them and how they exist solely to steal Takano away from him, the man with a larger-than-life agenda—things to do, places to be, people to meet. And it hurts. More than Onodera can bear. For he is a prisoner of the past, enslaved to the unconscious fear of losing the man he once loved all over again.

But there, in the tiny bedroom of 1202, Onodera relishes in the warm, affectionate touches of the man above him. He can’t see his face, he can’t hear his own name on the man’s lips. Onodera is simply _there_ and, to ward off the offending oni of the past, he dissociates himself from the emotional wreckage. Rather, he basks in the pleasure of fucking, totally inept in the art of love-making—this is how he copes with every rendezvous. Takano doesn’t seem to mind, at least, on most occasions.

Tonight, however, is an exception, as Onodera is brought back to the room, the sheets, and the man kissing him, Takano whispering an unbroken string of _remember me_ ’s and _I love you_ ’s.

Why must Takano be so adamant, so insistent on loving him?

Every time those three words pass Takano’s lips, Onodera is struck with a sense of guilt, the words weighing heavily in his chest, his gut. They don’t settle there, his stomach in knots, as though Takano is pleading for forgiveness. As though Takano is paying his mistakes forward. Making up for lost time—

—whatever that means.

“Onodera,” Takano whispers, his hands fiddling with the buttons on Onodera’s shirt, “I love you.”

At some point, his jeans slip off with ease, Takano following suit with his own clothes.

Onodera’s skin is exposed to the cool climate of the room, goosebumps rising along his arms, his chest. Takano doesn’t hesitate to finger his pink nubs, tweaking them in a teasing fashion before sucking them. Onodera’s back arches off the bed, hips colliding with Takano’s. The pressure feels good, the heat is welcoming. Out of habit, knowing it will happen sooner or later, Onodera anchors his legs around Takano’s waist, keeping the man close, feeling the weight of him between his thighs.

_So heavy, such a burden, why must it be him?_

But Takano is back to exploring every nook and cranny of Onodera’s body, his touch feather-light as he swoops beneath clavicles, between peaks of ribcage, burrowing down navel. Takano’s hot mouth engulfs Onodera, taking him to the base, swallowing desire, harboring animalistic need and Onodera is writhing, hands desperate for purchase on anything, _anything_ , but the man taking him inch by inch. He cannot want him. He cannot _need_ him. The knots in Onodera’s stomach only tighten.

“Onodera, I love you,” Takano breathes with one final pump of the hand, then adjusts them both on the rickety bed. Takano parts Onodera’s legs with little resistance to better accommodate himself. The sight is all too familiar—Takano there; Onodera beneath him, going through the motions. Waiting for the pleasure, and not the joy of it all. This is nothing but sex, nothing but the usual fuck-and go, Onodera chants to himself, a mantra.

_So why does this feel so different from that?_

And, like a Rubik’s cube clicking into place, Takano’s hand slithers along Onodera’s thigh, going somewhere further up north.

Onodera gasps at recognizing his final destination: the deep-seated scar in the valley of his abdomen, pressing there, holding it fast.

“I have always loved you,” Takano whispers, eyes glassy but bearing something akin to nostalgia, gazing at him as if entranced, lost in the throes of memory. Long gone is the residue of alcoholic haze; Takano is stone-cold sober. “Love you always, Ritsu.”

With the smallest nudge, Takano’s fingers spreading wide over the scar, there is a blip. A fractured moment of light, the slightest twinge of pain, and Onodera inhales sharply. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms; the taste of blood; the image of yukata unwrapping; the sound of warfare; the warmth of a hand pulling him back, back into a past Onodera hasn’t been able to recall in centuries—he could not have known of its existence until now. And all of it, these stolen moments, revolves around a boy who grows into a man. A man who becomes a friend. A friend who becomes a soldier. A soldier who becomes a lover, dropping his weapons, giving up the fight; a stalemate broken as he leans in, breathing the same air; they kiss. Onodera is kissed. _Takano_ is kissing him.

_Kuroda_ his mind supplies.

And, just like that, the knots in Onodera’s stomach come undone.

The string that has been twisted, worn, and tangled can finally come to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing this. There were a lot of times when I wanted to smack Kuroda upside the head for being so dense, but really, I think he is very clumsy with his words, a characteristic that should be replicated in this story. I hope you guys liked it; sorry, I know it's wordy but I'm trying out different writing styles and, for me at least, I thought being wordy suited this crossover. Let me know what you think.


End file.
